Oh, Lord, I can forgive what’s done to me by them,
But better, a wild hawk, I would tear a lamb,
Or, a snake — sting the sleeping in the grasses,
Than to be man, and see what people masses
Do on the earth, and through the noxious shame
To not dare up my eyes to heavens’ pure flame.
О Боже, за себя я все могу простить,
Но лучше б ястребом ягненка мне когтить
Или змеей уснувших жалить в поле,
Чем человеком быть и видеть поневоле,
Что люди делают, и сквозь тлетворный срам
Не сметь поднять глаза к высоким небесам.
«We are everywhere. We are nowhere. We walk / And the winter wind blows at us. / In churches both at dusk and during the day / It sings and blows out the candles. And it often seems that in the distance, / At dark walls or at a corner / Where we sang and passed, / There still sings and w...»
«The wondrous moment of our meeting… / I well remember you appear / Before me like a vision fleeting, / A beauty’s angel pure and clear. In hopeless ennui surrounding / The worldly bustle, to my ear / For long your tender voice kept sounding, / For long in dreams came features dear. ...»
«I will return as grass in spring, / I'll try to reach you, germinating, / As buds reach forward to the green / When they are waiting to awaken. To start the blossoming anew / One morning, secretly and shyly, / Already sparkling with the dew, / That dries away if sun is shining. The sun...»
«How many birch trees did you see in this world? / It’s likely — just two, maybe three, / All trimmed with the silver of first winter cold / Or dressed in the green veil of spring Or, maybe, in summer you’d come back at home, / And sunlight would fill all your place, / And through op...»